And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd,
Be Anarchy curs'd, and be Tyranny damn'd;
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal,
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial.

LINES

WROTE BY BURNS,

WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN RANKEN, AYRSHIRE,

AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY

AFTER THE POET'S DEATH.

HE who of R-k-n sang, lies stiff and dead;
And á green grassy hillock hides his head;
Alas! alas! a devilish change indeed!

VERSES

Addressed to the above J. RANKEN, on his writing to the POET, that a girl in that part of the country was with child to him.

I AM a keeper of the law

In some sma' points, altho' not a';

Some people tell me gin I fa',

Ae way or ither,

The breaking of ae point, tho' sma',

Breaks a' thegither.

I hae been in for't ance or twice,
And winna say o'er far for thrice,
Yet never met with that surprise

That broke my rest,

But now a rumour's like to rise,

A whaup's i' the nest.

LINES

ON BEING ASKED, WHY GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIS

Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn at Moffat.

Ask why God made the gem so small,
An' why so huge the granite?
Because God meant mankind should set
The higher value on it.

ON MISS J. SCOTT,

OF AYR.

OH! had each Scor of ancient times,

Been, JEANY SCOTT, as thou art,
The bravest heart on English ground,
Had yielded like a coward.

POETICAL EPISTLE TO BURNS.

[The following Lines were addressed to the Poet by the Rev. JOHN SKINNER, author of the popular song of Tullochgorum ;and, it is hoped, they will be considered as an acceptable addition to this publication.]

O! HAPPY hour for ever mair,
That led my chill up Cha'mers' stair
And gae him, what he values sair,

Sae braw a skance,

Of Ayrshire's dainty Poet there

By lucky chance.

Waes my auld heart I was na wi' you,
Tho' worth your while I cou'd na gie you,
But sin I had no hap to see you

I'm bauld to send my service to you
Hyne o'er the Forth.

Sae proud's I am that ye hae heard

O' my attempts to be a Bard,

And thinks my muse nae that ill fard:
Seil o' your face!

I wad na wiss for mair reward

* The printer of the Aberdeen Journal, in whose house Mr

Skinner first saw Burns' Poems.

Your bonny booky, line by line I've read, and think it freely fine; Indeed I dare na ca't divine,

As others might,

For that, ye ken, frae pen like mine
Wad no be right.

But, by my sang, I dinna wonner
That you've admirers mony hunner;
Let gowkit flieps pretend to scunner,
And tak offence,

Ye've naething said that looks like blunner
To fowk's o' sense.

Your pauky "Dream" has humour in't

I never saw the like in print:

The birth-day Laurit durst na mint

As ye hae dane,

And yet there's nae a single hint

Can be mista'en.

Your "Mailie," and your guid" Auld Mare, And" Hallow-even's" funny cheer,

There's nane that's read them, far or near,
But reezes Robie,

And thinks them as diverting gear

As Yoric's Tobie.

But, O! the well-tauld « Cottar's Night"? Is what gies me the maist delight:

A piece sae finish'd, and sae tight,

There's nane 's a'

Cou'd preachment-timmer cleaner dight
In kirk nor ha.'

But what need this or that to name?
It's own'd by a' there's no a theme
Ye tak in hand but's a' the same,

And nae ane o' them

But weel may challenge a' the fame

That we can gie them.

For me, I heartily allow you

The warld o' praise sae justly due you;
And but a Plowman!-Sall I true you?
Gin it be saè,

A miracle I will avow you,

Deny't wha may.

What recks a leash o' classic lare

Thro' seven years and some guide mair,
Whan plowman-lad, wi' nature bare,

Sae far surpasses

A' we can do wi' study sair

To climb Parnassus.

But, thanks to praise, ye'er i' your prime, And may chant on this lang lang time; For, let me tell you, 'tware a crime

To haud your tongue,

Wi' sic a knack's ye hae at rhyme,

And you sae young.

Ye ken it's nae for ane like me

To be so droll as ye can be ;